-----
The wanderer
A wanderer walks through the night
With a steady step;
He carries with him crooked valleys and
Long scornful mockery.
The night is beautiful –
He marches on and on and does not stop,
Not knowing where his way will take him.
A bird is singing through the night
‘Oh, bird what have you done!
Do you hinder my senses and feet
And shower me with sweet refrains
To my ear, that I must
Stand and listen –
You tempt me with tone and greeting?’ –
The good bird comes silent and speaks
‘No wanderer, no! I do not tempt you
With my song –
I tempt a little woman with scorn –
Why does it concern you?
Only to me is the night not beautiful –
How does it concern you? If you must go,
And never, never stand still!
Why are you still standing?
What did my flute playing do to you,
You, the wanderer?’
The good bird is quiet and ponders:
‘What did my flute melody do to him?
Why does he stand still?
The poor, poor wanderer!’
---
Now and formerly
So heavy is my heart, so sad is time,
And never enough:
It pulls me far into the
Vortex of melancholy, sadness and pleasure.
I can hardly see the sky anymore,
The blue may:
Wild delusions of lust and horror
Storm over me
I have broken an old time
Legacy,
That calls me to remember
My happy childhood.
I have broken a
Child’s oath :
I played with my heart
And was nearly robbed of it.
And where to find it ? Gone, is gone !
Only tears!
The grains poured out carelessly
Not like dull strings,
The golden grains – were not illusions ?
They shone a short while,
Death wrote a mighty No!
Upon every, every line.
I am like an old coin.
Green
Mossy and wrinkled on the form,
That once sparkled like a jewel.
Doubt furrows, deep and hard,
Life’s dirt,
Creeps over , grey and frozen, Seeking to embrace it.
And he who gave his heart to me –
Where are you, dear one ?
And those who quenched my thirst –
Where are they now ?
And every sun glance
That struck me – ?
Who took the last of my happiness,
My dreams and my hopes ?
I put my pounding heart
To rest
And sadness, wisdom, and burden,
Overwhelmed pleasure and profit –
It torments, oppresses and narrows itself,
In wild hours,
It hurls flames and scorches
Triumphant, was it bound.
And I write upon
Thick black pages
Little remains of the
Blood red letters,
A god wrote
Upon the white ground:
The God was I – reason
Has lied to you and me.
Oh, if I could fly away from
The tired world.
And fly as the swallows to the south
To my grave:
Warm summer breezes
And golden threads.
Rose scents around the churchyard
And childhood pleasures and voices.
Then I kneel in a marsh wood,
Completely still:
Diaphanous clouds
Float over high and proud.
Church shadows blanket me,
Lilies sway and in
Quiet breath ask me
My secret thoughts.
Oh, peace stranger of my time,
I greet
You from my silent loneliness,
Where I serve penance for my life.
From my life fours forth a
Fountain of holy waters:
I look you, and quietly,
My longing heart bleeds.
----
Erinnerung
Es zuckt die Lippe und das Auge lacht,Un doch steigt’s vorwurfsvoll empor,Das Bild aus tiefer, tiefer Herzennacht –Der milde Stern an-meines Himmels Tor.Er leuchter siegreich – und die Lippe schließtSich dichter – und die Träne fließt.
Herüber, hinüber,Fliegen der Blicke glaänzander Funken,Trüber und trüber,
Wölbt sich mein Himmel, wermuttruken,
Lieber, ach lieber
Bräche des Herzens zitternder Grund –
Herüber, hinüber,
Zucken die Blitze – doch schweiger der Mund.
Wolkensammler, o Herzenskündiger,
Mache uns mündiger !
Ich habe dir und mir vergeben und vergessen;
Weh! Du hast dich und mich vergessen und vergeben.
Remembrance/Recollection
It twitches its lips and the eyes laugh,
And still it rises reproachfully
The image from the deep, deep night of the heart –
The gentle star at my heaven’s door.
He lights up triumphantly – and the
Lips close tightly and tears flow.
Over here and over there
Flying the shining flames of lightning,
Gloomy and gloomier
Clouding my sky –
Dear, oh dear,
It breaks the trembling ground of my heart –
Over here and over there
Lightning strikes – but the mouth keeps silent
Clouds are gathering, oh, broken heart
Make us more mature!
I have forgiven and forgotten you and me;
Woe! If you have forgotten and forgiven yourself and me.
(trans. by James Luchte/ CH)
Hồi tưởng
Môi giật, mắt cười
Đêm đen thâm u huyền hồ
gieo mù sương hàm hồ
đáng trách–
Chàng sao khả ái dừng chân bên cửa thiên đường tôi cư ngụ
Ánh sáng quang vinh ngập tràn một cõi –
môi khóa ( rừng hương) , mắt tràn lệ nhỏ
Đó đây
Lửa trời bay lượn rực chiếu tầng không,
Trời xuân mộng âm u, sầu úa –
Trời ơi, đất ạ,
Tim tôi quặn thắt,
hoài mong vỡ mộng lưng đồi –
Đó đây sấm sét vang vang–
nhưng miệng môi im bặt
Mây tụ ngang trời, tim vỡ ( hồn núi rừng ngàn năm miên mật)
Ta khẩn cầu thâm thiêng, xin chín chắn
Ta đã thứ tha, quên lãng người, ta
Cao xanh ơi, người có quên đi,
tha thứ chính mình và tôi.
(Chân Huyền dịch sang tiếng Việt )
----
From : Dionysos Dithyrambs (1888)
The desert grows, woe to whom the desert shelters. . .
Ha!
Celebration!
A worthy start!
African celebration!
Worthy of a lion
Or a moralistic roar. . .
– But not for you,
My most lovely friends,
At whose feet,
I am permitted to sit,
A European under palm trees. Sela.
Wonderful! Truthful!
There I sit now,
Close to the desert and already,
So far away from the desert,
I am not only confused:
But swallowed up
by this little oasis –
– She yawned and
opened her sweet mouth
The sweetest smelling of a little mouths:
I fell into it –
here and there, under you,
My most lovely friends! Sela.
Hail! Hail! To every whale,
When he happily leaves
his guest! – Do you understand
my allusions? . . .
Hail, his belly,
when it was
Lovely oasis-belly, no doubt:
I drifted however in doubt.
That I come from Europe is even
More doubtful than all married wives.
God make it better!
Amen.
I sit here now
In this little oasis,
Like a date,
brown, sweet and golden,
Lusting after a girl’s full lips,
More still however after a girl’s
Ice-cold snow-white
Biting teeth: towards this
yearns the heart of all hot dates. Sela.
I lie here,
similar, all too similar
To an exotic southern fruit,
Surrounded
by small flying beetles,
dancing and playing
with me like
foolish and wicked
wishes and ideas –
surrounded by you,
silent and suspicious
Girl-cats
Dudu and Suleika.
– Besphinxst, I put a lot of feeling in one word
(Forgive me God,
for this sinful speech! . . .)
I sit here, sniffing
better air, paradise skies,
Light and easy, golden striped,
good skies which
only ever fall down
from the moon,
Was it from chance or exuberance?
As the old poets say.
I doubt it.
That I come
from Europe
is even more doubtful than all married wives.
God make it better!
Amen.
Breathing this beautiful air,
With nostrils swollen like mugs
Without future, without memory
Here I sit,
My lovely dear friends,
And gaze at palm trees that bend, press
And sway their hips like dancers –
– One joins in, one looks long . . .
Is she like a dancer who for too long
Already, dangerously long, stands
Always, always only upon one leg?
– she forgotten
About the other leg?
In vain,
I searched for the twin,
The Gemini Jewel
– Namely, the other leg –
In holy closeness
to her lovely,
Flittering, flattering, fanning tutu.
Yes, if you can believe it,
Beautiful friends,
She has lost it . . .
Hu! Hu! Hu! Hu! Huh!
It has gone,
always seeking
the other leg!
Oh, what a shame, about the other lovely leg
Where has it gone to mourn
this other lovely leg?
In great fright from
The grim blond curly
Locks of a monstrous lion? Or perhaps
Already chewed up, devoured –
Awful! Woe! Woe! Devoured! Sela.
Oh, do not cry,
Gentle heart!
Do not cry to me, your
Date-heart! Milky bosoms!
Your sweet heart –
Like booty!
Be like a man, Suleika! Courage! Courage!
Do not cry any more,
pale Dudu!
– Or, perhaps there is
something stronger, strong as a heart,
here on the square?
A soft speech?
A celebrating speech? . . .
Ha!
Rise up!
Blow, blow again!
Bellows of virtue!
Ha!
Roar alone, roar with morality,
As a moral lion roaring,
Before the daughters of the
desert!
– Your virtuous lament,
dearest girls,
Is like all
European zeal, European hot-hunger!
And there I stand,
already a European,
I cannot do otherwise, God help me!
Amen!
The desert grows, woe to whom the desert shelters!
He crunches stone upon stone, the desert chokes and
twists,
Glowing brown, he looks at monstrous death
With rumination – his life is his chewing . . .
Do not forget – Man, who quenched his lust:
You – – are stone, desert, and death . . .
---------
After a nightly thunderstorm
Today, sad Goddess, you are encased,
In shrouds around my window.
Dreadfully, abundant pale flakes swirl,
Dreadfully, haunt the sounds of the deep brook.
I see! With each stroke of lightning,
With the roar untamed thunder,
With the damp of the valley, you, sorceress,
Have brewed a poisonous deadly drink!
Shuddering around midnight, I hear
Your lustful – and lamenting voice,
I see your eyes blink, see your
Sharp thunderous flash.
You tread upon my deserted bed
Fully armored, glistening with force,
Knocking at my window with a brazen chain,
You speak to me: ‘Now listen to what I am!
I am the great eternal Amazon
Never feminine, soft or gentle
A fighter with a man’s hate and scorn,
I am conqueror and tiger combined!
Where I tread, I trample rings of corpses,
My grim eyes hurl torches,
My brain thinks poison – Now kneel! Pray!
Murderous worm! Madness, fade away! ’
The wanderer
A wanderer walks through the night
With steady steps;
He carries with him crooked valleys and
Long scornful mockery.
The night is beautiful –
He marches on and on and does not stop,
Not knowing where his way will take him.
A bird is singing through the night
‘Oh bird what have you done!
Do you hinder my senses and feet
And shower me with sweet refrains
To my ear, that I must
Stand and listen - -
You tempt me with tone and greeting?’ –
The good bird becomes silent and speaks
‘No wanderer, no! I do not tempt you
With my song –
I tempt a little woman with scorn –
Why does it concern you?
Only to me is the night not beautiful –
How does it concern you? If you must go,
And never, never stand still!
Why are you still standing?
What did my flute playing do to you,
You, the wanderer?
The good bird is quiet and ponders:
‘What did my flute melody do to him?
Why does he stand still?
The, poor, poor wanderer!’